


Reanimation of the Corpse Soldier

by nwhepcat



Category: Captain America (Movies), Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ancillary Feels, Ancillary Justice - Freeform, Ancillary Mercy, Ancillary Sword, Artificial Intelligence, Books, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky loves space opera, Characters Reading, Don't need to read Imperial Radch series but you really really should, Gen, Headcanon, Imperial Radch Love--not about the characters but the books themselves, It's all about the pastry, Jarvis finds a fandom, Jarvis is just the best, Memory Loss, No spoilers for the Imperial Radch books, Oh tree where is my ass?, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Multiple, POV Steve Rogers, Reading Feels, Rebuilding identity, Representation is important even if you're a mind-wiped soldier, Ships have favorites, Station is a good friend to have, Steve Feels, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve worries about Bucky, Tea, slash goggles optional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:02:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnes finds a kindred spirit in the most unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reanimation of the Corpse Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is headcanon that manifested shortly after I finished the fabulous Imperial Radch series by Ann Leckie. This isn't a crossover with characters from her trilogy, but a story about Bucky reading the novels. 
> 
> You don't need to have read the series to understand the story. There aren't really spoilers for the books, either. Some references may seem spoilery, but due to the narrative structure of Ancillary Justice (the first book), these things are revealed very early on.
> 
> Warnings for after effects of mind wipe and mind control, memory loss, emotional fallout, PTSD, nightmares.
> 
> And finally, many thanks to my betas, herself_nyc and oracne.

**not what I once was**

Steve walks into the living room, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of Bucky sprawled on the couch, a book in one hand (the metal one), an apple in the other. It's the most relaxed Steve has seen him since--well, since he got him back. 

His fingers twitch with the urge to sketch Buck's feet, of all things. The way his thick white socks, ghosted with the faintest gray on the soles, furrow and peak at his toes. How his feet cross at the ankles, propped on the armrest. Tiny details, but they make Steve's heart swell.

 _Don't hope for too much too fast_. Significantly, that thought arrives in Sam's voice. But what amount of time is long enough?

A faint smirk tugs at Bucky's lips, prompting Steve to ask, "What are you reading?"

"Space opera," he answers. "One of Barton's. It's called _Ancillary Justice_."

Steve remembers when they were published in thin paperbacks on cheap paper that tended to yellow and grow fragile. This book is a larger format paperback reserved for books of higher merit, not destined for the supermarket rack. Yet another change in how things are. He doubts Buck would be able to hold a book of its thickness comfortably the way he is with his flesh hand. (He wishes he could draw this detail, too, but suppresses the desire as he had the other.)

He's grateful Bucky took his advice to find something else to read. Before this, it was piles of books on war and postwar history, each bristling with Post-It notes. Some things--not marked by sticky notes--sent him into his room for days at a time. "Advice" really isn't the word for what Steve offered; "order" is a little more accurate. There were several days of open hostilities after Steve boxed up the books and took them to a mini-storage place while Bucky was doing one of his equally obsessive stints in the gym. It was a shitty thing to do, and Steve knew it. But he was terrified for Bucky. 

Eventually he persuaded Buck to visit Clint, who has a growing library and a taste for science fiction and mystery, which Bucky had always liked. Clint, actually, will read anything, but the things he chooses to keep are carefully selected. Buck came back with a small stack of books, slightly less enraged.

The first he started must not have taken, because Buck is at the very beginning of a new one. Already it has brought him to this point of relaxation. 

It occurs to him that if he keeps hovering, Bucky's not likely to stay in that state, so Steve decides to see if there are more apples in the kitchen. Just as he's turning to head there, he hears a small, strangled cry and the soft thumps of book and apple hitting the floor. 

Bucky runs for the bath in the hallway, and through the closed door Steve can hear the sound of violent retching.

***

_The corpse soldier._

The phrase echoes in Barnes' head as he leans back against the bathtub, trembling and bathed in sweat.

_The corpse soldier._

This is what he is. Everything human has been scooped out of him, tossed aside. They didn't shove all kinds of tech in his brain to convert him to the eyes, arms and legs of an artificial intelligence--though they would have, if they'd had more than an arm to graft onto him. Either way, the person he was is just as dead as the unlucky bastard that got made into an ancillary.

They always have prettified, bloodless names for what they do. Ancillary. Asset. 

_Corpse soldier._

Steve knocks softly on the bathroom door. "Buck?"

"I'm _fine_ ," he snarls, but there's a rasp to his voice from puking his lungs up. 

His tone doesn't deter Steve. Of course it doesn't. Steve is Steve. "Is there anything I can bring you?"

"No." Barnes makes an effort to modify his tone. "Thanks."

What can a dead man actually need?

***

Though Steve was certain the book had been what set Bucky off, by the next day he's settled back into reading it. This shouldn't surprise him, Steve tells himself. He'd still be knee-deep in history books if Steve hadn't taken them away. (Sam has since royally chewed Steve's ass for that move, but Steve hasn't brought them back.)

His body language is nothing like it was yesterday. Buck's slouched into a large chair, legs drawn up, curled around the book. His flesh fingers tap a quick rhythm on his knee as he reads, but otherwise he's still. Not entirely relaxed, but at rest. 

Okay. Okay then.

***

Barnes has only spoken to Jarvis once since Steve brought him to the tower. It was early on, the first time he had taken a shower. He'd been in his tactical gear for days--even after his arrival, he'd been unwilling to make himself vulnerable by peeling it off. He'd smelled like a fucking goat, even offending himself (not that there was anyone else to offend but Steve and occasionally Wilson).

As he'd settled himself under the warm spray and felt the tight knots of muscle in his neck and shoulder begin to unclench, he let out a curse and a long, loud groan. At that, a voice came from the ceiling above: "Sgt. Barnes, are you in distress?"

He'd known about the A.I., been greeted by it when Steve first explained it to him. 

He'd merely swallowed his mortification and mumbled, "I'm fine."

"Is there anything I can adjust more to your liking?"

"No. This is--it's fucking perfect."

"Ah," said the voice. "I understand. Other Avengers have had such reactions to long anticipated comfort. I will leave you to enjoy it, but feel free to request anything you may need or want."

He never had in the weeks that followed, but now he addresses the ceiling. "Uh, Jarvis?"

"Yes, Sgt. Barnes."

"Could you put tea on our supply list?" He's heard Steve make similar requests. Steve often says it feels like magic to have things appear the same day they're wanted, after the struggles they'd shared during the Depression.

Barnes doesn't remember.

"I would be happy to do so. Is there a kind you favor?"

"Hell, I don't really know anything about tea." The admission--or maybe the request itself--makes him feel like an idiot. Like the subhuman child the lab coats had obviously considered him. What's he supposed to say? _I'm reading a book where the characters drink tea, and I want to try it_? Well, the last bit sounds a little less stupid. "I thought I'd like to try some. What's a kind that people think is good?" 

"Opinions are as varied as those who hold them, I suspect. Would you like me to assemble a sampler for you?"

The oddness of this whole interaction with a machine nearly paralyzes him, but he falls back on Steve's example. "That would be great. Thanks, Jarvis."

***

He wakes in the darkness, shivering on the floor. The familiar prickle of his skin tells him a cold sweat is now drying on his body, which is curled into a corner of the room. 

There's a voice. Not his, because it's calm, friendly. They talk to him like that sometimes. It usually announces something terrible.

But the accent is wrong. "Are you with me, Sgt. Barnes?" A Brit. "You're safe. You were dreaming, but you're safe Would you like me to call Capt. Rogers?"

" _No._ No officers. I'll do what you want." 

"I was referring to Steve Rogers, your friend."

The name brings Barnes back to himself, and the voice clicks into place. "Jarvis." His own voice is rough; he must have been screaming.

"Yes sir. You're safe. You're in New York."

"Yeah, I got it," he snaps. Barnes takes a couple of slow breaths, levers himself into a sitting position. "Sorry, Jarvis. Thanks."

"Is there something more I might do to assist?"

"No. Just a dream. Something I read before I fell asleep." Lab coats pulling an ancillary _(corpse soldier)_ out of suspension, not giving a shit. Seeing a body, a piece of equipment, not a human.

"Perhaps a review of your late-night reading materials is in order."

"Nah. I need to find out how everything turns out." At the beginning the main character saves another character's life, but she doesn't know why. The one she saves is a soldier--a captain, to be precise--who was in suspension for 1,000 years before being discovered. Who turns out at times to be a massive pain in the ass. 

Barnes is not a strong enough man to resist that opening, much less put it down halfway through. 

An urge to move overtakes him. Rising, he reaches for a pair of sweats to pull on over his boxers. "I think I'll go down to the gym for a while." Which probably translates to a few hours. Nothing purges fear sweat like good sweat, in his experience.

"Very good, sir."

"Could you knock off the 'Very good, sir' shit? The butler act makes me feel like a phony." Like he's playing at being rich to con some heiress out of her money. This mental image is so strong Barnes is certain he's seen some old movie with that plot, but he has no specific memory.

"I will keep that in mind. Do you have a preference as to how you'd like to be addressed?"

He yanks on a soft gray tee. "Barnes will do."

***

Steve notices items coming with their grocery order that he hasn't requested. A lot of tea and associated paraphernalia. 

Sam laughed when Steve used that word, but then he was encouraging about what that means. Buck having his own preferences and expressing them. Even making his requests directly to Jarvis is a sign of progress, according to Sam. Although Bucky isn't ready to venture out into the world, Steve is no longer his whole lifeline to that world. 

The tea is a reminder of Peg, of course. Her extravagant pleasure whenever she could get her hands on some tea, even shitty wartime tea. Carefully he sounds Bucky out, wondering if the sudden interest in tea is a signal that he's remembering her or the war.

"No," Buck says. "It's still all Swiss cheese in my head." He takes his book and his tea, then, and goes into another room, leaving Steve alone with memories no one else shares, not even Peg.

***

**a constant awareness of being in orbit overhead**

"Jarvis," Barnes says as he's waiting for the kettle to reach its rattling near-boil, "are you an A.I.?"

"Indeed I am. May I ask what prompts the question?"

"Book I'm reading. It's a space opera. There's an A.I. in it."

There's a distinctly sardonic note to Jarvis' voice when he says, "Is it bent on destroying the human race, or merely enslaving them?"

"Actually, she's the main character." The hero, he thinks, though he's not sure Breq herself would agree. 

" _Indeed._ " Surprise colors Jarvis' voice. He asks the name of the book and author, which Barnes supplies, as well as the two sequels. 

The kettle begins its noisy rise toward the boiling point, and Barnes snatches it off the burner, pouring water over the tea ball he's packed with Irish Breakfast. His supply came with tea bags as well, but he likes the ritual of measuring tea leaves, placing them in a strainer or ball, cleaning up afterward. It settles him, much like cleaning his weapons once did, but it's free of associations with guilt and horror. 

"They are not at all what I expected," Jarvis says. "The series is quite satisfying."

"Wait, you read them?"

"Just now, yes. You had a question you wished to ask of me?"

"Why do you have a name?" The A.I.s in the book were all called _Ship_ or _Station_ when spoken to. Breq had only taken a human name after she was torn away from her larger self, when her hunt for vengeance required her to hide what she was.

"A human name?"

"Yeah."

"Because Mr. Stark wished to give me one."

"Does it stand for something?" The government is all over that shit, and Stark's old man himself started S.H.I.E.L.D. Maybe the son has a talent for clever acronyms too.

"Technically, it does. The phrasing is somewhat tortured to fit the name he'd already chosen, so I prefer to handwave the entire issue."

Huffing a laugh, Barnes fishes the tea ball from his mug and deposits it on a saucer.

"Buck?" Steve enters the kitchen, cheeks still flushed and hair damp from his morning run. "Is somebody--" Registering the fact that Barnes is alone, he stops.

"Just talking to Jarvis," Barnes says, lifting his mug for a sip.

As Steve's gaze lands on the mug, he brightens. "There's coffee?"

"Sorry. It's tea. I'll make you some if you want."

"Nah, that's okay. I'll put on a pot." He moves to the counter where the coffee pot and supplies sit, begins to scoop grounds into a filter. "Had breakfast?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I'll make breakfast for us both. Just give me a few minutes to shower."

Barnes snorts. "Sure. Because I'm so picky about hygiene." 

Steve, he notices, is slightly taken aback, but he manages to smooth over his expression quickly. Is it because Barnes made a joke--especially one about himself? Has he done that since he came here?

"Okay then," Steve says. He washes his hands, then starts pulling things out of the refrigerator. "Omelets?"

***

Barnes watches gray light gradually wash over the Manhattan skyline, bringing details of skyscrapers into sharper relief as he climbs imaginary stairs, going nowhere. The climber's one of the three machines in this section of the gym, screened off from the rest of the facility.

The screening-off happened after Barnes' first visit. The machines looked far too clinical for his comfort, not to mention sinister. In his recent experience clinical and sinister were virtually the same. Anything with a seat, anything with parts that seem to hem him in, anything that measures or monitors him are things he has to get away from. Which, as it turned out, was 90% of the gym in its original configuration. 

Steve says he much prefers this part of the gym too, and Barnes actually believes him. He seems very fond of pounding the shit out of heavy bags--apparently there's a standing order with some athletic equipment supplier. Stark's paying for them. He pays for everything. It bothers Steve beyond reason. Barnes doesn't particularly mind. He hasn't exactly spent the past 70 years paying his own rent and food bills.

Unless you count paying with his blood, his soldier's instincts and trigger finger. His memories and emotions and identity--his humanity.

Jarvis' voice interrupts his thoughts. "Barnes," he says in his unperturbed voice. "The stair stepper is on the verge of overheating. Perhaps you should set it to cool-down mode."

"Thanks," he mutters, poking the appropriate buttons with his flesh hand. He's two minutes in when Jarvis quietly alerts him to the fact that Stark is about to enter the screened-off area. He finishes out his five-minute cool down, acutely aware of Stark wandering around the equipment, pretending nonchalance. At last when Barnes dismounts the machine, he sees that he's left deep finger indentations on the left railing.

Stark tosses him the towel he'd left over the treadmill railing, and Barnes wipes down his face, his limbs, drenched in sweat. Stark, he notes, has a dark V of sweat down his t-shirt front and a towel slung over one shoulder. 

" _So_ ," Stark says, "how's everything here in Gold's Geezer Gym? Everything low-tech enough to suit your needs?"

"It's fine, thanks," Barnes says flatly. Though it irritates the hell out of him, he makes himself add, gesturing to the partition, "Thanks for reconfiguring the place." After all, it was entirely due to Barnes. 

Stark shrugs. "If there's one thing I _get_ , it's flashbacks. Caves, for me. Or damp places that smell like caves. And water. That one's super convenient. You should let me look at that arm." He makes a vague gesture toward Barnes' left side, and Barnes steps swiftly back out of reach. It takes an effort to do that instead of wrap the hand around Stark's throat and do to it what he'd done to the stepper rail.

"I could make that a lot more comfortable, is all. That much weight must play hell with your musculature. Compensating must throw all sorts of other things out of whack."

"I compensate," Barnes says curtly. Changing the topic as swiftly as Stark had, he asks, "Why did you build Jarvis?"

The question clearly startles him, but he smirks. "Because I could. I was seventeen and working toward my master's at MIT, and why the hell not?" He levels a look at Barnes. "What makes you ask?"

He can't actually put that into words. "No reason in particular. Just marveling at the future." 

"Do you have a favorite thing about the future?"

That Steve--who the lab coats told him was dead--is here in it. That Barnes has something of his free will back ( _agency_ is Wilson's term for it, though that's a word that conjures faceless bureaucracy for Barnes), if not all of his mind. Neither of these things is something he particularly wants to confess to Stark. "Toaster pastry and porn on demand."

That prompts a grin from Stark, but then he says, "Future could include a better arm. Just sayin'. If you'd let me--"

"I knew your old man," he blurts. "Howard."

 _That_ stops the wheedling about the fucking arm. Suddenly there's a tension in the air that Barnes can't interpret. Stark's eyes have gone wide and dark. "Yeah?"

"I don't remember him. But Steve says I did." 

"Yeah," Stark says curtly. "That's what I heard."

He drapes the towel over his own shoulders. "Look, I've got to hit the shower." 

Stark, he notices, wastes no time stepping out of his path. 

***

"It might not be a breakdown, it could be a break _through_." That's what Sam told Steve when he'd asked him to come and talk to Bucky. 

Bucky, who has been weeping quietly nonstop since yesterday, folded in on himself. Refusing to eat or drink--not even when Steve had offered to make him some tea. 

He found Buck out on the balcony after Jarvis aborted his panicked search of their suite. _That book_ was on the floor of the living room, so he was expecting something bad. Warily he stepped out onto the balcony, but he didn't spot Buck until he could see the whole space. Wedged into a corner as tightly as possible, legs pulled up close with his hands clenching his knees. There'd be bruises on the left knee, Steve was sure.

"Hey," he said softly.

Buck brought up a hand to shield his face. The metal one still pressed into to the flesh surrounding his kneecap. "Get lost, Steve." His voice was choked with tears.

"I thought you might want to talk."

"Do I fuckin' _look_ like I want to talk?"

"Okay, well, it makes me nervous, you out here." 

Dropping his hand, Buck gave him a hard look. Even with tears tracking down his face, he managed to pull it off. "The pigeons out here aren't that tough."

Steve gave back a scowl of his own. "Laugh it off, Buck. But I know what despair can do."

That put him on alert. He palmed the tears away. "What, Stevie?" Because Bucky might not remember much, but protecting Steve seemed to be coded in him on some cellular level. 

Steve shook his head. "Just come inside. From that point, you can do as you like, I promise not to nag."

So he came in, finding a corner on the floor to wedge himself into, and this morning agreed to meet with Sam. 

The good news is, he's talking to Sam right now. 

The bad news is, they're out on the balcony.

The good news is, he's with Sam.

The bad news is, Sam isn't wearing his wings.

The good news is, Bucky's actually sitting in a chair.

The bad news is, he's hunched over, not quietly crying but shuddering with sobs.

The good news is, he's with Sam.

The bad news is, Sam catches sight of Steve watching through the glass door, and he waves a fierce though silent _Go away_.

Sighing, he retreats to his bathroom to run a hot bath. 

***

"So many, Sam," he rasps. "Jesus God."

Wilson doesn't argue or discount what Barnes is saying, just rests a warm hand on his shoulder and lets him pour it all out. 

When Barnes finally sags back against his chair, exhausted, Wilson says quietly. "They named you wrong. You weren't a soldier, you were a weapon."

"Which means jack shit to the dead."

"True. But it's the living my job concerns. Don't bury yourself along with the ones you were made to kill."

Barnes rubs his forehead, which doesn't really touch the headache. That old line about crying making you feel better is pure bullshit.

"This book you're reading. Steve thinks this isn't the first time it's triggered a strong reaction."

"He's not wrong." He wishes he could just curl up and go to sleep for a while. 

"What are your thoughts about going on reading? Too many triggers, or do you plan to continue?"

"Oh, I'm not putting it down now." He tells Wilson about the main character saving the other one without knowing why.

"I can see how that could resonate with you."

"And the character she saves is an enormous pain in the ass."

To Barnes' complete surprise, Wilson laughs heartily at this. "I can definitely see how that could resonate."

"I can see myself in it, in the main character." He manages to twitch a half-smile. "I don't think I'm going to find many stories where that's true."

"I suspect you're right," Wilson agrees. 

"I also can appreciate the whole quest for revenge storyline," he adds. Breq even faces the whole _cut off one head, two will take its place_ problem--times a thousand. 

"Would you mind," Wilson says slowly, carefully, "if I got it and read it too? We could talk about it, examine those other places where the story resonates."

"Sure. Just--I think Steve would want to do the same, if he knew. It would upset him more than it would help, I'm pretty sure. Let's keep this between us."

"First rule of book club," Wilson says, "is don't talk about book club."

***

"Hey, Jarvis." Barnes is cleaning his tea flask with the special brush Jarvis found for him.

"Yes, Barnes. How may I assist you?"

"I don't need anything. Just wondering, do you have any favorites? Besides your captain--Stark, I mean."

"Ah, but that would be telling."

He rinses out the flask and sets it carefully in the drainer next to his mug. "Is there anyone who happens to get slightly colder showers? Cable that goes mysteriously on the fritz during a prize fight?"

"Ahh. That would most definitely be telling."

Barnes thinks of his perfect showers, his just-right toast, and allows himself to feel just a little bit smug.

***

**one step and then the next. it had never been anything else.**

"Steve," Bucky calls from the kitchen. "Sam brought donuts. Come and grab a couple before we take them out on the balcony."

"A whole couple?" he responds, entering the room. Steve stops dead as Bucky flips the box open, and his stomach rebels at the thought of eating anything. "Buck?"

He's wearing gloves on both hands. Some lightweight material Steve doesn't know the name of. Brown.

"You know you don't have to hide your metal hand from me."

"I know," he says, unconcerned.

"Or from Sam, either." He looks around for corroboration, but Sam's not there.

"He's in the can," Buck says. "And I know." Annoyed now. He waggles the box in Steve's direction, and Steve absently grabs a couple without really paying attention to the kind.

Without any further explanation Bucky hooks a couple of mugs in his fingers before grabbing his tea flask and heading through the living room to the balcony.

***

Barnes ditches the gloves halfway through his session. They'd been talking about another topic entirely, but Wilson asks if he wants to talk about why. "The tea obviously works for you, but not the gloves."

He thinks it's kind of a silly digression, but all right. "I don't like giving up the sensitivity to touch that I do have. And the gloves are all about the society, not Breq. The tea's a Radchaai thing too, but it's obviously important to her for itself. And frankly--" He reaches into the donut box, comes out with a powdered. The shower of white when he bites into it is oddly satisfying, if messy as hell.

Wilson laughs. "I guess humanity--or at least the Radchaai--moved beyond powdered donuts."

"But they still are all about the pastry." He flicks a glance down at the gloves he'd cast aside. "Too bad, though. Those were a bitch for Jarvis to find."

***

Barnes is soaking in his bathtub, submerged to his shoulders with his left arm curled up and behind his head. It doesn't make much of a pillow, but he's been drowsing anyway, for quite some time. The water stays at its perfect temperature--or maybe even raises by a degree now and then as he gets used to it. He suspects it's been at least an hour, and it's still perfect.

"Jarvis," he says.

"Yes, Barnes?"

"Why did Stark create you?"

"I believe Mr. Stark would be the best person to ask."

"I did." Barnes attempts to imitate Stark's tone. "'Because I could.'"

Jarvis' voice is infused with amusement as he amends, "On second thought, Mr. Stark might be the last person to ask."

"He also said he was seventeen, going for his master's degree at MIT and why the hell not?"

"Ah. That may be more to the point. He was younger than his peers in the program, and smarter than many. His parents had just died suddenly. It was a devastatingly lonely time for him."

"So he built a friend." Based on everything he's read and heard about Stark, it makes a lot of sense.

"That is a great oversimplification, but yes."

"He gave you this butler persona, but he also built in all this--what's the word?--snark."

"Not precisely. The snark developed as I did."

"Steve thinks he likes it, though."

"I believe so also."

Barnes laughs. "It's your true friends who'll give you the most shit." He thinks of Steve, who has always given him barnyards full of shit, but is so careful with him now. Eyes closing, he falls into silence.

A few moments later, Jarvis says, "Barnes...."

He shifts in the tub, enjoying the warm, silken glide of the water. "Yeah, Jarvis?"

"I feel obliged to say that I cannot be for you what a ship is for its captain." 

In the books, Barnes instantly realizes. 

"I do hope we can continue as we have," Jarvis continues, a completely foreign hesitation in his speech. "But as I see you experimenting with different ways of being yourself, I fear you could develop hopes that I have no ability to fulfill. I do not wish to disappoint you. I cannot be your Ship."

"No. But _Station is a good friend to have_."

"Indeed." A note of relief colors the A.I.'s voice.

"Thanks for saying something," Barnes says. "It puts us both on a more stable footing."

***

"One of the most interesting things about Ann Leckie's books," Sam says, "is what they're not about." They're sitting on the balcony under a perfect blue sky. It's quite warm, just a teaser of October snap in the air. Between them sits a bakery box of Italian pastries--"all about the pastry" has become a joke between them, and Sam brings some to every session. Barnes has just developed an obsession with chocolate-nutmeg biscotti, currently working on demolishing his third.

"How's that?" he says around a mouthful.

"Breq has had her identity stripped away. She's not Radchaai, except by annexation, but the reader doesn't even know what planetary system she's originally from. I gotta think most novels would be about her tracking that down, finding a way to become who she'd been. But this story doesn't go in that direction. Leckie's concerned with her post-ship life, and the identity she forges through and beyond her search for vengeance, the community she forms around her. What are your thoughts about that?"

Barnes blinks several times. "How did I not see that?"

"It's interesting to me that you've been exploring aspects of Breq's self, rather than reaching back toward others' memories of who you are."

Frowning, Barnes asks, "Is that fucked up?"

Sam liberates a cookie from the box. "It's damn healthy, in my book. You've found connections between her and your past and your current situation, but _you're_ the one who's finding them. You're leaving space for the person who comes out of this experience."

"I don't know if I want space in my head."

"Think about what you want there, then. We'll make that an assignment."

Oh joy. Homework.

***

_Take it off, take it off_  
_Cried a voice from the rear_  
_Down in front, down in front_  
_Soon was all they could hear_

A pair of running shoes appears in the doorway just as Barnes is aiming the broom toward that spot. Startled, he takes a quick step back, right into the little pile of dirt and dust-balls he'd swept up.

It's Steve, of course, back from his morning run. "Buck? Were you _singing_?"

The incredulous tone irritates him. "No, I was buggering ducklings."

" _That's_ what that sound was."

"Hardy fuckin' har, pal." He jabs the broom's bristles at the neon-bright shoes. "Move your bigass feet. You're in my way here."

Steve steps back out of the doorway and waits while Barnes recollects the dirt, sweeps it into a dustpan and disposes of it. Once that's done, he enters the kitchen, setting a package on the island counter before opening the fridge to get the orange juice. 

"And use a glass."

"That package is for you," Steve says. "Did you order something recently?"

"No." Barnes has been venturing out with Steve to buy things he wants or needs, apart from grocery items, which Jarvis still manages.

"Well, open it."

It takes some wrestling to defeat the packing tape and the protective foam below, but when Barnes finally gets to the box's primary contents, he draws in a breath. Carefully he lifts one of the porcelain bowls from where it's cradled. The bowl is delicate enough that it's almost see-through, with shimmering colors that melt into one another. Barnes whistles his appreciation.

"It's beautiful," Steve says. "A little small for cereal, though."

"Don't you dare, you dope. You drink tea from them." He unpacks the rest of them, setting the other three on the counter with exquisite care.

"Where did they come from?"

"I don't know." Sam's the only person he talks to who knows the books and knows he drinks tea, but somehow this doesn't seem like his style.

"Maybe it says on the packing list?"

Barnes finds the paper where he'd set it aside, unfolding it. Air gusts from his lungs as he reads the message. "Jarvis?" His voice quavers just a bit. 

'Yes, Barnes," the A.I. says quietly. "Use them in good health."

***

Steve walks into the living room, a couple of longnecks hooked in the fingers of one hand. Bucky's sprawled on the sofa, sock covered feet on the arm rest, with a book in his hand. He'd swear Buck's been reading the same novel all this time, but he says it's a series, and he's on the third. 

He sets one of the beers on the nearest end table. Nudges one of Bucky's legs. "Hey. I brought you a beer."

"Huh? Oh, thanks."

"You mind if I draw you while you read?" Used to be, Bucky was so accustomed to being sketched that Steve didn't even have to ask. 

"Go to it, ace," he says with an eye roll, which actually _is_ vintage Bucky. He falls back into the story as if he was never interrupted, and Steve works on capturing this moment of relaxation as Bucky continues to read, beer forgotten.

Steve's pencil jerks a slash on the paper when Bucky lets out a groan. But there's no breakdown that follows, just "Jesus, these two are annoying. Jarvis, don't tell me I'm going to be crazy about them by the end of this goddamn book." 

"Very well, sir," Jarvis says with a sarcastically obsequious tone usually reserved for Tony Stark. "I shall withhold that information from you."

Bucky snorts. "Go pound pixels, Jeeves." After a few moments, he rests the book face down on his chest and reaches for his beer. "You suppose that's a thing that's true in real life? The longer you know irritating people the more you like them?"

"You're asking _me_?" Steve asks. "I'm still waiting to see if that kicks in."

Bucky sends a throw pillow flying in his direction. "I'm asking both of you."

"Indeed I believe it often is," Jarvis says. 

"Yeah," Buck says softly. "I think I want to invite Stark down for dinner. That be okay with you, Steve? I'll make spaghetti."

"Fine with me. You know he'll want to fuss over your arm." 

"Ugh. I'll deal." Setting the book on the coffee table, he shifts onto one elbow, his attention on Steve. "There's something I want to ask. It's important."

"Sure, Buck, go ahead."

A twitch of a smile. "That's just it. I want to be called James from now on. I don't know how much of Bucky's memories are coming back. And if they do, they still have to sit alongside the ones I have now. But the most important reason--the name Bucky sounds really fucking stupid in the 21st century."

Steve can't suppress a laugh, which he knows was the point. "Sure, B-- James. If you'll be patient when I louse it up."

"I'll give you a few. I know how old farts feel about change."

"Get bent."

Bucky-- _James_ picks up his book then, and settles back as he was. Putting his pencil to paper once more, Steve sets about capturing the little smile curling James' lips before it fades away.


End file.
